


A Court of Filth and Fandom

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, BDSM, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, a whole mix, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: A collection of the prompts I've answered on tumblr.1) Feysand - E - BDSM, Choking, Sensory Deprivation, Dom!Rhys2) Moriel - E - Musician AU, Fingering, Adoration3) Andras/Lucien/Elain - M - Fluff, Smut, Drabble4) Feysand - E - Dom!Rhys, Sub!Feyre, Anal, Throne Sex, Court of Nightmares5) Lucien x Tarquin - E - Banter, Ass-licking (literal and metaphorical)





	1. Lay Down Your Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Please write Feysand dungeon kinky gfic please Can Rhys be dom Please

Feyre can’t move. 

The leather straps fastened around her wrists and ankles see to it that it stays that way. In fact, she has been stripped of all agency, gagged and blindfolded so that she cannot see nor speak, utterly helpless. It would be her worst nightmare, were it not for one simple fact: she chose this. 

Though it has all already been agreed upon, she can’t help but jump out of surprise when a sharp snap of a riding crop stings the soft flesh of her abdomen; She can feel the blood rushing to form a bruise, and knows there is a pink mark blushing for all to see upon her bare flesh.

Naturally, she is naked. 

Though she knows the whippings are to happen, she knows not when they will come, nor where they shall land. Each one makes her whimper against the gag ball shoved into her mouth, deep back against her throat. Despite being designed to keep her quiet but alive, the unyielding metal of the sphere makes it hard to breathe, and her disorientation from her sensory deprivation is only heightened by her lack of oxygen. 

It feels like starfall. Like faery wine. Like Rhys when he’s inside her.

But he’s far from inside her now; With what little she can learn about her surroundings, she can smell his citrus scent as he circles her, splayed across a stone slab. She doesn’t think she could do this if that scent wasn’t there, grounding her to reality amongst the play, so that she always remembers there’s a way to turn back.

The whip licks her again, catching the inside of her thigh, teasing the edges of her vulva. Turning back is the last thing she wants to do. Instead she cries out in both shock and ecstasy, wordless against the oppression of the gag. The **frustration** as her impeded speech finds new ways to drive her deliciously crazy, seeping into her muscles and forcing them to resist, arching her back, tugging her limbs against her restraints. 

She can’t explain this with words. She’s been trapped so many times before, swearing each time never again. But somehow, like this, where she appears utterly vulnerable, she is at her strongest. She chose this. The pain of that crop slashing across her cheek, making her skin hum with the burn of it, is all _hers_. 

“You make the most beautiful noises, darling,” Rhys says softly, his voice coming from somewhere above her head. She feels the edge of the crop draw playfully up her jawline, tracing each of her features in turn. “And now, I’m going to make you _sing_.”

Fuck thinking about all this. Fuck thinking about why her body erupts in celebration every time Rhys electrocutes her nerves. It’s her pain, and she fully intends to own it. 

She moans in soft approval as he straddles her upon the stone, his bare cock shifting across her thighs and groin. Already the skin there is slick and wanting, ready ready ready for whatever he’s got to give her. _Fuck me,_ she thinks against the gag, enraged that she can’t demand it. She can’t see him, but she can feel him, not just pressed flush against her skin but through the bond, the buzzing, dark as night energy of his beautiful being radiating across her. She tries again, demanding down the bond, even though they were supposed to save that just for safe words. 

_Fuck me._

_Now Feyre, darling_ , his sinfully silken voice replies, not aloud but from the depths within her head, _don’t you know what happens to little girls and High Ladies alike when they break the rules?_ Her breath hitches in her throat.

 _They get punished_. 

A hard, rough driving force pushes deep into her pussy, and for a minute she thinks he’s followed her demands. Momentarily, she is barely disappointed that he is such an easy pushover, until she catches herself whimpering in desperation against the gag; the thing in her pushes deeper, and narrows suddenly so that the lips of her pussy close around it, sealing the handle in. The riding crop; he’s fucking her with the damned riding crop. 

Even if she were unbound and ungagged, she’d have to words to speak with. Her mind is a white hot blank, lights popping in her vision as he pushes it in deeper and then around, toying with the walls of muscles that have wrapped tight around the crop in shock. The nerves within her are sparking and screaming like a thunderstorm, and it hurts - fuck does it hurt - but even as she feels her eyes prick with tears she sighs in disbelief:  _Oh how wonderful._

_You’ve felt nothing yet, Darling._

The hand that slips around her throat makes the same promise. Suddenly, the gag comes loose. Rhysand pries the metal ball from her mouth, and she hears it clink metallic against the floor from where he’s tossed it aside. Next comes the blindfold. _I want you to see me, darling_. His voice purrs in her mind as the fabric comes free and she can see again. _I want you to see our audience. We’ve gathered quite the crowd._

As instructed, still dazed and very much aware she has a riding crop shoved up in her, Feyre looks around. The room they’re playing in has one wall of solid stone, then three artificially marked off by translucent draping, black netting as luxurious as anything back at the House of Wind. Gathered behind the curtains is indeed quite a crowd, a dozen or so court nobles and lesser fae all alike together. For the first time, Feyre is glad to see the nobles of the night court. Glad they are watching. They’re her audience as much as she is their entertainment. 

Only the Hewn City could have a ‘club’ like this.

 _Now_ , Rhysand calls to her mind, and she can feel the cheshire cat grin on his face before she sees it, _You’re to look at me and only at me. Understood, darling?_ She nods, and the grin tilts to a smirk. With the hand not currently stroking her jugular, he gives the riding crop a little twist, just so it doesn’t get forgotten. _If you’re sitting comfortably…_

Feyre can do nothing to suppress the tremor that runs through her as she feels his deft, warrior fingers constrict around her neck. The anticipation alone of the oncoming high is enough to leave her wet and wanting, were she not so already. She’s almost sick with it, the begging, needing sensation in her stomach. _Don’t stop_ , she thinks, no longer sending it down the bond but throwing it out to the whole world to hear. 

The fingers tighten. Her body’s instincts kick in and force her to gasp. Rhysand, clever Rhysand, does an excellent job of preventing her from sucking in any air. She’s trained him well. 

 _Don’t-_ Her projecting thoughts are cut off and die as the oxygen starvation starts to set in. Her vision crackles with static, and then spins off kilter. Better than faery wine. Better than starfall. If only-

He follows his instructions to perfection: Just as her body begins to shake, gasping for air it cannot take in by reflex, his cock is inside of her, the crop she knows not where. With the discipline of a warrior trained in the hell of Illyrian camps, he maintains his grip perfectly as he fucks her, rough and deep, neither of them desiring him to be gentle. She can’t breathe. She can’t get enough: not enough breathlessness, not enough highs, not enough of Rhysand and his fucking glorious co-

Cresting Orgasm. It hits her like a tidal wave swallowing the drowned. She’s barely aware of it until she gasps in air and this time it rushes to fill her lungs. It’s taken a lot of build up and practice not to black out now, and she almost doesn’t care as the orgasm, a fucking holy shockwave of exhileration and pure, filthy pleasure rocks though her very bones all straight to her clit, which is throbbing despite being the only thing left untouched. Fuck. 

_Fuck._

“Okay, my darling? My beautiful, breath-taking darling?” Rhysand asks, there to check she’s alright in a heartbeat. He smirks as she manages a slight chuckle, letting him know she’s okay. “No puns intended, honest.” 

She doesn’t think she can manage words yet. She nods, and laces her fingers with his, taking the hand he’s rested upon her thigh. When did she get untied? Just how long was she disconnected from reality by that orgasm? She’s not sure whether to be worried or proud. “Come, darling.” Rhysand strokes his fingers through her hair, then gently scoops her up. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

Again, she can but nod. She curls into him, muted and calm in the wake of the adrenaline rush. All she needs to do though is let him take over, finally. She’s claimed her pain; now he can gift her comfort. _Rhysand_ , she thinks to him, curled against his chest, _I love you_. 


	2. There's Sunshine In My Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: AU!musician moriel

When you play the piano for a living, practicing day in and day out, it lends your fingers certain qualities. Rigorious practice gives them dexterity, increased range, and flexibility. Having to play near-silently at 2am because a song is stuck in your head and your flatmates are asleep teaches you how to work with feathersoft touches and delicacy. Being a member of a rock band means you know _how to tickle those ivories **hard**_. 

Mor is thinking about all this and nothing at all as she is hoisted up upon a grand piano. Her arse kisses the keys with a dissonant clunking of notes. “Your finest work yet,” she whispers with a cheeky smirk against the black hair brushing her nose, as a certain someone dotes upon her neck. 

“Because I have my muse here with me,” Azriel says dryly, never the type to discuss his work openly, never the type to take it anything but seriously, and yet for her he makes exceptions. For her he is everything. 

*

He hasn’t been able to write anything but her. It’s a problem, because they are a rock band and he’s not supposed to croon out love songs, he never wanted to sing about such things. He wanted to exorcise the demons of his past, and escape into a world of formless sound and arching music, which has always treated him better than people. 

Yet here he is, undone. All those formless sounds and racing demons fall silent and in awe before her. Mor has taught him that the love he thought childish and artificial - inferior by far to the shadows of reality - is in fact far worse than he’d imagined; it is the sun to his shadows. They do not stand a chance. 

And he has been left burned so often. For so long he could not bear to touch her. How could he, when he knew he was little more than Icarus transfixed by her immortal heat? He’d fallen so many times before, but never had he been dragged up this high. If he falls now, he doesn’t know how he’ll ever put himself back together. 

So it’s been years of wanting and yearning and fearing. 

Yet all it took was her to make up her mind. A shared glass of wine and the simple instruction of ‘Azriel, I think it’s about time you fucked me’ and that’s it. He is her. His music his hers.

*

More delightfully, his pianist hands are hers. 

Shoved rough back against the music stand, tinkling a few more keys as she shifts, Mor watches the man of silence and black ice and can almost hear his heartbeat. He’s rarely said more than four words to her at a time, and yet she never needs him to extrapolate. It’s almost as if she can feel his meaning in his bones, hear his innards resonating through his hard-soft gaze. 

He never once let her in. She has no doubt he would have refused, but the thing is, he never once had a choice. She was under his skin from the moment they met. Without a quiver of his lips she could hear him, his body language, the way he moves about her, always speaking louder than words ever could. And when he plays. 

When he plays she gets chills, real chills, chills that keep her up to three am wondering what it all means and why he never once seems to let her closer. Chills that frighten her and make her feel quite sick when she’s drunk from drinking to forget him. Chills that wrap around her when she wakes up first thing in the morning and drag out a smile from her because whatever the world may throw at her there’s always his hands and that strange, sad music in the world, and though it shouldn’t it makes her unbelievably happy. 

*

What skills his art have taught him, Azriel soon puts to use upon the instrument of Mor’s body. She’s stripped of underwear in a moment, and his long fingers slip beneath her skirt with a sureness lent only to those who know how to use their hands. He doesn’t need to look to know where he’s going. A thumb to caress her clit, two fingers circling her entrance. So warm compared to ivories.

She hums in response, the noise softly shimmering across her skin and in her throat, where his lips taste salt and the sharp sting of lingering perfume. He rubs harder. Her clit is soft and pliable, growing hard and swollen as he thumbs it, loving the unfiltered moans it stirs in her. It’s a sound like sunshine, hot drinks in the morning, and something that speaks of nighttime and things that most should not be privalleged to see. He wants to bottle it; Makes sounds like that. This though he does not want to share with the world.

Slow, she grinds her hips against his hand and obligingly he pushes a finger into the hot wetness of her pussy. The angle is awkward as he stands between her legs, and she’s sat upon the keys, but the sweltering tightness of her is not unpleasant. It makes him dizzy, and he has to force himself to focus as he pushes in another and scissors them carefully to widen her. 

What will happen after this? He doesn’t know. He’s run shy from this lion of a woman many years, always denying to himself that she could own him, and now he’s proven he’s helplessly at her command. Does he care? He should, but in that moment he wants only to please her, to bring her to climax across the instrument from which she stole his love. 

She responds feverishly to the touch of his fingers upon her clit, and soon he slows those inside her to favour pushing and rubbing that bundle of nerves tucked sweet between her thighs. He kneads and grinds with his knuckles, slow, slow, then pushes back and forth hard and fast to bring her breath rushing from her in a dumbfounded gasp. Half hard himself, he lets her grip tight against him as he massages her through her ecstasy. 

When she comes it’s long and slow, and he keeps going; A lifetime of practice has meant he can keep this up all day, and even as she shakes through an orgasm he scrapes his thumb deep and smooth against the tight hot knot of nerves beneath the skin and she flat out whimpers, nearly screams, and shakes again, crying out like she’s broken, and it’s a sound he knows though he’s never heard it before. It’s trapped somewhere in him too, beneath flesh and bone and it has him dripping precum, shivering himself. 

“Az,” she pants, and tears are on her cheeks, but she’s flushed and smiling. “Az. Do that _again_.” 


	3. Old Lovers Born Anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Ooh could you please do some steamy times for elandras (Andras x elain x Lucien)'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of #DrunkHarryAnswers over on Tumblr

Old lovers reunited are entitled to their fair share of scorching hot reunion sex, those are the rules. But what do the rules say when one of those lovers has found his mate, and fallen totally and hopelessly in love with her? Better yet, the lover returned finds her utterly enchanting too. What now, what now?

What depravity must await them?

She’s still barely left vriginity when together, beneath the starlight, in a pool that swims with stars itself, they strip her of her fine garments. All that’s left is a silk cardigan, a pastel bra that drips down into the water. They, strong broad mean beside her soft, plump girl body, seem warriors born of the ancient religion, come to ravish fleeing maidens. Yet she does not flee. She dictates; they move on her watch, by her count, and follow her command. She calls them closer, speaks that they are to take her mind, body, and soul. They do not linger.

Andras, returned from the dead, is tender, for she is so so new to him, this flowergirl, this child of the human world made something so much more. He traces the shivers of her neck and kisses the rivulets that run down her back, cold water shocking against his warm, heating lips. Opposite is his opposite, for Lucien knows what it is that Elain yearns for, not gentle touch but ravishment whole, rough kisses, firm fingers, tugging her nipples sharp and fucking her cunt with two bold fingers. Lovers new, lovers old, they come together beneath the stars.


	4. Court of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand - Dom!Rhys, Sub!Feyre

“It’s so different when it’s quiet,” Feyre observes, circling the throne room. The Court of Nightmares lies deserted; Now that the war with Hybern is over, Rhysand finally has the time to deal with its populace. They have all been imprisoned, and his inner circle interrogates and interviews them as she speaks, determining who might be capable of reform, and who is beyond saving, for now anyway. The Hewn City is to become a new Velaris.

For now, they are alone. High Lady as she is, Feyre seats herself upon the throne and looks out at the empty court room, imaging herself ruling over a place like this. “We’ll need more light,” she says. “And something to fill this space a little so it doesn’t feel quite so…hollow. A feast, perhaps? Or musicians. I’ve missed music.”

“It shall be as you command, m’lady,” Rhysand says, stepping up to stand beside her, taking her hand and kissing the knuckles. “Will you join me for this dance?”

Laughing, she blushes and feigns shyness, humming and haring before grinning and rising. “Well, I suppose.” Music is summoned from thin air, Rhys’s strange magic filling the hall with life once more. He is every bit the trained gentleman as well as warrior as he rests a hand to her waist and whirls her around the dance floor in a beautiful rendition of the waltz. She was taught snippets as a child, but never really mastered it, thus she steps on his toes and laughs as he corrects her. Despite the location, it is a warm and magical night, and Feyre remembers what it is to be in love in a time of peace.

“Rhysand,” she says, when at last they stop panting and giggling. “We are all alone.”

“Oh dear.” He sighs. “What ever are we to do?”

The answer he receives is wordless; instead, Feyre takes him by the hand and leads him back up to that enormous throne, intimidating even without its court. “I remember when you nearly fucked me before an entire court.” She sits, looking up at him. Sliding down, she sticks out her leg and presses her toes to his crotch, massaging the half hard cock beneath the fabric. “All to prove how you ruled me.”

“You’re High Lady now. We’ll never have to do that again.”

Her eyes darkening, Feyre swallows. “My love. What if I said I wanted you to?” She averts her gaze, those high, freckled cheeks flushing scarlet. “What if I wanted you to fuck me into this damn ugly chair and show me how you can rule me?” He might be the most powerful High Lord in all of time, but Rhysand is helpless to deny her, especially when he thinks he might just come there and then if she says something so entirely delicious again.

“I think you’d better bend your ass over that chair, darling.”

As if the deserted court isn’t surreal enough, he watches as she slides off and leans over the chair, resting her head on her arms upon the seat. “Sir,” she says dryly, mocking him almost for his slow uptake.

“Oh, no talking, subject,” he says easily. He is after all The Whore. She’d be mistaken to think this was his first time playing dirty. “Face forward.”

She obeys with a small chuckle, gasping when it earns her a sharp slap on the ass. Through the mate bond he can feel the delight shiver through her, surprised by this new, alien breed of pleasure.

Easing his talons out, he slices through the dress like it were made of water, and it pools around her feet, defeated. “I’m not going easy on you, subject,” he warns her, checking whilst keeping up the act. “That was _my_ throne you were sitting on. Whatever made you think you had the right?”

As per his instructions she doesn’t respond, through he sees her rub her thighs together, compressing her clit in frustration are how aroused she is without even the slightest touch. He slaps her again, her ass flaming bright pink as the sharp treatment. “Don’t touch yourself,” he commands, his fingers grazing her asshole. “Only I am allowed to touch you now.”

She groans deep in the back of her throat at the restriction, but does as she is told. It is all he can do to resist turning her round and fucking her slow and gentle there, so turned on is he, but this is what she wanted. And in a strange, wonderful kind of way, he loves it too.

Using the dripping wetness of her cunt, he slicks up her ass with two glossed fingers, working her open. She is still so new to this back passage, and already she is a whimpering mess just from the excursions of his forefinger, yet through her cries she begs over and over for his cock. “So greedy,” he coos, leaning down to bite lightly at the swell of her hips, her shoulders, her red-raw ass cheeks. “No wonder you ended up like this.”

When he’s confident he’s not going to break her, he replaces his fingers with his cock and oh Cauldron is she tight. He has to struggle and strain not to moan n case it breaks the illusion, and so he growls instead, venting his frustration into hard, heavy thrusts into her virginal passage. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck fuck fuck_ ,” Feyre hisses through her teeth, her fingers clenching. She only moans louder as Rhysand strikes the side of her ass once more, faster this time, leaving a purpling sting behind.

“Oh no, you don’t get to enjoy this,” he says, every bit the mask he used to have to wear to strike fear into the other courts. Reaching over, he knots a hand in her hair and uses it to force her head up, arching her back concave as he rides her. “You beg for it. Beg for me to fuck you.”

“Rhysand, Rhysand please.”

“That’s ‘My Lord’ to you.”

“My Lord, please, _harder_.”

He did not think she had more to give, but as he pushes rougher, he finds he sinks deeper into her, hitting against the walls of her passage. Clamping down on his lower lip with his teeth, he draws blood, the salt rust taste flooding his mouth as his eyesight dances with light. “Again,” he pants, not sure he can hold on much longer.  
“ _Rhysand- please_ -“

Despite his efforts, he’s the first to come, exploding inside her with such force he nearly collapses to his knees, his grasp upon her hair pulled tight the only think keeping him upright. She cries out as the filling of her ass sends her over, and she curls up upon the chair and whimpers, both crying and smiling. “Consider your punishment completed,” Rhysand pants, sucking in air in long, ragged breaths before he manages to pull himself out and stand.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Feyre says, motionless for a long moment before she slithers up into the chair and turns, splaying her legs, her cunt towards him. She smirks, every bit his devilish, brilliant mate. “Now come here, Lord of mine.”


	5. At Face Value

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I was thinking about ass licking/fingering. Lucien and Tamlin or Tamlin and Rhys. Or any m/m pair you like. It doesn't matter as long as it's m/m. You'd make this gay loser VERY VERY HAPPY GAY LOSER. Thanks. And I adore your fics 

Technically, Lucien is only doing as instructed. Tamlin did say that he was to kiss Tarquin’s ass if need be to win the Summer Court over to their cause. And in all truth, Tamlin has never been so great at grasping the complexities of metaphors, so it generally works to take his words at face value.

Still, Lucien can’t help but feel a little bit devious as he licks across the rim of Tarquin’s asshole. The High Lord of Summer is splayed out in all his gorgeous glory upon the sand surrounding a quaint little waterfall. _Yes_ , he had said when Lucien had questioned him, _yes, we really do have an indoor waterfall_.

Naturally, Lucien refused to believe him until he had witnessed the thing with his own eyes. Cresseida and Varian had accompanied them to ensure that Lucien did not seduce the Summer Court and all of its treasures away from its lord. They weren’t doing a very good job however, given how Lucien was playing feather-light kisses over the lord’s asscheeks, whilst they reclined in the warm water pool, stark naked, stroking one another’s bodies lazily.  

“Lucien,” Tarquin says with as much lofty restraint as he can manage when a tongue is probing his ass. “Are you planning on fucking me any time soon? Or shall I warn the servants that dinner shall have to be served late?”

“So impatient, young lord,” he says with a sly fox smile. “Who said I was planning on fucking you at all?”

Tarquin goes to protest, but he is cut off by Lucien’s quick, insolent tongue pushing into him, forcing him open. The Lord swears colourfully, earning a patter of laughter from their two onlookers. Even he laughs, in between his swearing and grunting, for it is too hot and too late for bad moods. They’d spent the morning sailing the crystal clear oceans, had lunched upon oysters and rich fruits, and now, full and satiated, they are sleepy and faintly horny. It is a Summer afternoon, and as always when Lucien is visiting, they shall spend their time lounging and fucking.

Living up to the promise of his lips, Lucien leans in further, cleaving Tarquin’s ass in twain with the firm muscle of his tongue alone. Though the High Lord is a known – and utterly delightful – slut amongst those who’d know such things, his ass remains tight, especially to a tongue. Yet Lucien has an equal reputation, and is infamous for his skill, the wit of his tongue both in and out of politics. He makes sure he maintains his good reputation.

“You are wasted on Tamlin,” Tarquin mutters as he groans through a grin, his ass cheeks clenching, his powerful thighs arching him up closer to that devilish tongue.

“Don’t I know it,” Lucien agrees, pulling out for a moment to grasp Tarquin’s ass and splay those divine cheeks. “ _Relax_ , my lord.”

“He’s been wound so tight every since the Night Court’s visit and plundering,” Varian muses over from the pool, his fingers threaded loosely in his companion’s hair, absently plaiting it. “Make sure you see to that.”

“Sir yes sir,” Lucien says dryly, raising an eyebrow at Tarquin who just laughs. When they’d first been introduced, Varian had been utterly appalled to learn that Lucien had every intention of fucking his High Lord. Now, he seemed faintly put off whenever the courtier actually tried to talk business.

Returning to his duties as ordered, Lucien licks and digs into that beautiful ass, forcing in deeper and trying not to chuckle at the broken, shivering gasps Tarquin’s hissing out all the while. They’re almost too quiet to hear over the steady rush of the waterfall, so Lucien decides he simply must fix that. He replaces his tongue with his fingers, and to his delight Tarquin cries out a glorious ‘ _fuck’_.

Here, Lucien truly excels; After all, he’s had plenty of practice. Rough and firm, he fucks Tarquin wider and wider, well-attuned to knowing when to add another well-lubricated finger. Yes, Lucien is the kind of diplomat to always carry lube on a political visit. The whole of Prythian knows that. And the whole of the Summer Court must surely know he is excellent at it as he makes their lord cry out a string of forbidden words as he comes across the sand.

“Now, my lord,” Lucien says, licking his soaking fingers. “Would you still like me to fuck you?”


	6. Prisoners of War - Dark!Elriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #DrunkHarryAnswers Prompt: or hardcore bdsm elriel or elucien bc lets face it- bondage!elucien is basically canon now ok

All the while he’s torturing information out of prisoners of war, Az is thinking of Elain, planning their next session. Each brutality he finds within the shattered bones of some meaningless lesser fae, he transforms into another aspect of the night that they shall spend together. Each drop of blood he draws, he shall match within her arms. 

And it is a long day of interrogation. 

The end result is most elaborate.

He’s been practicing his knotting and with her docile and becoming he binds her with her arms behind her back, tied to her ass so that she’s forced to kneel upon the bed, face suffocating into the sheets, her ass prized up in the air. She moans in satisfaction, but that isn’t the point; he’s not there to make her feel good. He can’t give that to her. He’s there to scratch a sick shameful itch that lurks beneath his skin. 

Yet even against the gag strapped too-tight in her mouth, she’s begging him for more, to fuck her, to please just fuck her. 

Good thing he tied the ropes just so that her pussy is splayed open, so he can see the damp sheen of her wetness coating her cunt and thighs, soaking the ropes. Good thing just the sight of her bound and helpless like this, entirely within his power, has him hard and angry and needing. Good thing he can no longer stop himself.

Disregarding foreplay he fucks her hard and fast into the bedsheets, her bound body unable to hold on, her face in the pillows so she cannot see how he grunts and nearly cries at the sense of biblical release, of that white hot anger within him igniting and dispensing. She just moans in ecstasy as his cock buries deep within her and fucks against the friction, slams against her shapely bones so send the bed banging loudly against the walls.

She comes thrice before he is finally able to offload the torture of the day upon her, and when he’s done he slides from the bed. Wipes himself down. Leaves her. 

There is no after care with them. He leaves her bound and gagged upon the bedsheets, where she collapses in subspace bliss, half-conscious. He might untie her later. Maybe.


	7. Initiation - Cass x Lucien x Az

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #DrunkHarryAnswers Prompt Response

“Alright Red,” Cass says with his signature smirk, leaning back against the cabin door as Lucien undresses from his battle armor. “Just one more task.”

“You’re serious?” Lucien deadpans, exhausted from fighting his way across a mountain range to find these two winged maniacs. “Haven’t I done enough to prove my loyalty?”

“But the next part is the most important.” Azriel, whom Lucien had thought kind and gentle, is smirking just as deviously, and suddenly he feels like a rabbit cornered by the wolves. 

“ _And_ the most enjoyable.”

All of a sudden they are upon him, caressing his bruised and battered flesh, stroking up his spine and hips and he has not been touched in so, _so_ long, he cannot help but fall prey to their deft touch. “I’m not-” He begins to protest, but they hush him. 

“Let us welcome you to the family,” Cassian murmurs, his unshaven jaw brushing Lucien’s, leaving raw, red bristle marks in its path with flush irritation of the skin. They are barely noticeable, however, for already Lucien is crimson with self-consciousness and arousal. He is not built like these Illyrians, from muscle and war camps, but from politics and fine dining, and feels soft and weak within their grasp, though he knows he could fight any one of them.

“We’ll take care of you,” Azriel assures him, as he kisses up his neck. “As is tradition.”

And suddenly he understand. He’d heard rumors of Illyrians but- but this is more than he could ever have anticipated. For a moment, he hesitates. But he misses the heat of flesh on flesh. The sensation of kind lips upon his skin. Of knowing intimacy with someone who does not think him useless. 

Quickly, he gives in.

They fuck him together across the benches, both at once, both _in_ him at once, an act he did not think possible and _fucking cauldron_ his ass aches and splits with fire pain and yet he is begging for more and asking them to push in deeper. Soon his eyes are wet with tears and his ass with cum and sweat and his mouth is round Cassian’s cock as he repays the favor.

Perhaps he would not be so giving with his body if he knew Elain dwelt outside, having come to collect him from his finished training. If he knew she was listening through the door. Peering through the keyhole. Two fingers lipped beneath her skirts, coaxing her clit into a private orgasm. 


	8. #DrunkHarryAnswers Shorts Compilation - MultiShips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For #DrunkHarryAnswers Prompts over on my Tumblr @squaddreamcourt

**Prompt: Mor and Cass angst fucking after Azriel's death? (bonus points if it's right after and they're both just desperate for something to numb the pain and grief - even if that involves more pain just of a different sort)**

 

They’re both missing something - something worse than flesh has been torn out from beneath their breast and it aches like nothing they’ve known before. They’ve both lost more than a brother, more than blood or family or any of that shit. They’ve both lost a love, and it’s the kind of pain that won’t heal for decades. All they can do is drown it.

So they drown it in skin and hair and sweat and moaning. Mor buries it deep within the flexed muscles of Cass’s back, screaming it into the swelling of his shoulder, and sobs it into the planes of his chest as he fucks her, straddling his waist.

A true warrior, he tries to destroy it, faces it on the battlefield as he pounds into her, rough and fast and unyielding like they trained him, but no matter how much he comes or how coarse he is the pain does not abate, and she cannot save him. There’s some solace, yes, but it’s shadowed by the man they lost, and even in the embrace of one another, they fall ever deeper into grief. 

 

* * *

 

**Prompt: I beg you Nesta Cassian Elain omgggg**

 

If Cassian were to be jealous of anyone, it’d be Elain. No other demands Nesta’s attention as she does. And he thinks her meek and mild and so the opposite of her fearsome sister that he has no interest in her, other than envying how she holds Nesta within her thrall. 

And then one night they both come to him, and Elain is the first to approach, to touch him. Her fingers and shy and curious as they undo his shirt, strip him of his garments, and yet there she is the one leading the pursuit. Nesta watches, smirking, giving him a look that speaks more of what she feels for him than she has said in all the years before. She’d love to fuck him. And so, it seems, would her sister.

And who is Cassian to refuse the requests of beautiful ladies?

He finds himself adorned with both of them, kissing and touching and exploring the lengths of his thighs, the strong curves and arches of his muscles. They palpitate his abdomen and luxuriate in the resistance of the thick muscles there, indulging in the majesty of his body without shame or hesitation. From Nesta, he’d expected this. But from Elain? 

It seems he was mistaken.

Dumbfounded, he is at their mercy as Elain rides him, and Nesta presses her pussy wet and slick against his mouth, calling forth his tongue to lick and kiss within her, drinking in the salt rust taste of her. It is better than any fine wine. He’s drunk on the attention, and they indulge themselves in him long into the night.

* * *

 

**This is for drunk Harry, but my phone is an ass and refuses to send stuff emmidiatly so if that's the case feel free to ignore this...elain doing butt stuff to Lucien?**

 

He thinks of her as a half-child until the night they spend together.

She appears in his chambers like an apparition, cloaked in a dainty nightgown of white and lace and flowers, and she crawls into his bed like a little girl with nightmares. 

Yet as he goes to ask what’s wrong, she slips atop him, gathering his hair and jaw within her hands and he finds himself adorned with kisses, buried within them, on his lips, his cheeks, his uncertain eyelids. She anoints his ear lobs, the tender shallow of his neck, the crux of his collarbones. Visited by this saintly vision all in white, he feels quite holy. 

Then her delicate hands slide down muscular thighs and slip around his back, tracing the contours of his spine like a jigsaw puzzle. He nuzzles her neck, thinking her innocent and affectionate.

A whimper. 

He’s caught off guard completely, as she parts his ass with roaming fingertips. It’s sharp and sore and oddly charming as she presses a finger into him, like he imagines she has so many times upon herself, and explores the closeness within him. All the while her nose skirts the softness of his cheeks, nuzzles his jaw and neck, like a playful animal, seemingly naive were it not for the fingertip carving circles round his prostate.

Without so much as a cunning smirk she coaxes him to orgasm, and kisses him deeply, longingly as he gasps and shivers, putty in her hands. “You’re mine,” she whispers against his lips, as he melts him in her hands, 

* * *

 

**Maybe filthy Rhys and Cass sex?**

 

“You are such a cunt,” Cass teases, as Rhys runs two fingers down his asshole. “Fuck off - your mother expected us an hour ago.”

“Oh, you’re loyal to my mother now?” Rhys asks with lofty haughtiness and a devious smirk, accompanied by those two fingers parting flesh and slipping deeper. He laughs when Cassian hisses a short ‘ _fuck_ ’.

“She’s more sense than you.”

“But not nearly as nice an ass.”

“True,” Cassian conceeds with a grin, catching a hold of the hand that is toying with his ass and prizing it out. With a Cheshire cat smile and a predatory grin, he turns and pounces, pinning The Most Powerful High Lord to the bed. “Though I’d better inspect it, just to make sure.”

Rolling his eyes at the cheesy humor, Rhys settles back into the bed sheets and hums  contentedly to himself as Cass kisses soft and searching across the inside of his thighs, the plush flesh of his asscheeks, the heat beneath his cock. His lazy indulgence is cut short, however, when Cassian pushes inside of him.

He barks a sharp growl, caught off guard by the sudden penetration, then laughs, high on the adrenaline the mix of pain and pleasure brings him. “You bastard,” he pants, as Cass straddles between his thighs and rocks in deeper.

“That is a correct summary of my state of birth,” he jokes through gasping breaths, grinning and snickering among the soft moans and grunts. Surrendering his body to the warrior, Rhys collapses back into the sweaty sheets that they’ve been lazing in all morning, and relishes in the sweet, hard sensation of Cass fucking him up the ass. They know each other well, for their bodies speak the same language on the battlefield as in the bedroom, a silent, knowing tongue that requires no words but cuts all the deeper.

* * *

**LUCIEN SEDUCING ELAIN!!! Lucien coming onto Elain and she like "Oh, no I should not do this..." but Lucien is just toooooo good at what he does. Do with that what you will ;)**

 

The lady doth protest at first. She’s all blushes and shy smiles and “I really shouldn’t.” She’s expected back at the Night Court. She only came to deliver a message, to try and win him over to their good side. But Lucien is High Lord of the Autumn Court now. He’s bolder. Stronger. Free. And he can feel down the quivering sensation of the bond that she is begging for his touch. 

He presses her tight, firm against the bedpost, the wooden post taking her weight as she melts back against it. “No, really, I shouldn’t,” she mumbles half-halfheartedly as his fingers slip beneath her skirts and rub rough circles round her clit. 

“Would you like me to stop?” Lucien purrs, and it is no question, but a low, mischievous tease, for he can feel somewhere deeper in his bones that she is _screaming_ for him to take her there and then.

A gasp. A whimper. She closes her eyes, bites down on her bottom lip. Wills herself to say yes, for the sake of decency. He is bored of decency. The Spring Court suffocated him enough with that. “No,” she whispers, and she is his. 

* * *

**Lucien and nesta ass licking**

 

Lucien always looked down upon humans; judged them as inferior, stunted, simple-minded. So perhaps he should be more humiliated to find himself bowed over the Hewn City throne with a past human’s tongue licking up his ass. 

Nesta Archeron owned him from the moment they met. She was a force of lightning striking against fire - he was extinguished and replaced in an instance, with someone in awe, in loving adoration and worship of this woman who was more a force of nature than a creature of flesh and bone. 

And now after the war, she rules the Hewn City under Rhysand’s charge as is the Queen she was clearly born to be - but politics are irrelevant now. What matters is her sharpquick tongue is sharpquick pressing against his ass, into his ass, piercing his ass, until he is moaning in frustration and begging her to go deeper, _deeper_.

She snorts in derision, always having mocked him for being so desperate for her, although it is with fond affection. Her teeth scrape the ridges of his entrance, and she licks deep and dark against his tight interior until he’s shaking on the throne, knees buckling, crumpling him over the arms. A warm, rich laugh swells in the back of her throat as she takes his insides in her mouth and licks, kissing that oh so sweet sweet spot with the tip of her tongue.

* * *

 

**Alright Mesta and riding crops**

 

“My beautiful Ice Queen,” Morrigan purrs as she strokes the cool tip of the riding crop down Nesta’s bare hips. The eldest circles her prey decked out in full riding leathers, strapped up like a true warrior. Her lover stands naked, waiting silently, refusing to let her mask of indifference slip.

But _that_  is exactly what the crop is for. 

“Is this doing nothing for you?” Mor teases in a bored monotone, lazily brushing the crop against Nesta’s clit, sliding it down, in between her thighs. Stepping closer, she yanks it up, slamming it against her cunt, her clit, her ass, giving her such a shock that even The Ice Queen whimpers. “Oh? What was that, my love?” She leans in further, running her lips across the air centimeters above Nesta’s jaw, never touching, never giving her what her swollen clit shows she so clearly wants. “Are you feeling flustered?”

“On the contrary,” Nesta says, and she tries to keep her tone disaffected but Mor is not the type to miss how her pitch quivers at the end, “I find myself incredibly bored.” She looks Mor dead in the eyes and deadpans. “I mean, are you going to hurry up and fuck me with that, or do I have to keep indulging you and your games?”

Thrilled by the heat that sets off in her groin, Mor laughs. “Charming,” she hums, half sarcastic, half all too sincere. With a rough shove she pushes Nesta back onto the bed and straddles her, riding crop in hand. “Who knew under all that indifference you were secretly desperate for a fuck?”

“Not for any fuck.” Nesta glares back at her with all the ice and fire in the world but there is no anger directed at her, only a sharp, hard passion. “Only for you. Always, only for you.”

“Well then.” Mor works the handle of the crop up Nesta’s cunt and chuckles softly when she moans in response. “I’d better come to your rescue.” 

Panting, wriggling at the strange sensation of the crop up her pussy, Nesta forces herself to regain some modicum of self control and pushes herself up, cupping Mor’s jaw with one hand. “You already have.” 


	9. Feysand - M - Short Smut

Feyre was just trying to be a ‘High Lady’, specifically the  _ lady _ part. 

For Rhysand, she wanted to try. 

She wanted to co-ordinate grandiose events, wear elegant dresses, and do other ‘ladylike’ things as her mother, her sisters, her  _ world _ had taught her. She’d just wanted to be good at something that made her feel like what society deemed ‘a woman’.

And so she had decided to start easy; After all, how hard could it possibly be to arrange some simply flowers?

Thus she’d wandered out into the forest surrounding Velaris, the fields, the snow-capped hillsides, and foraged whatever wildflowers and plants she could find. To her surprise, as she’d ventured, The Suriel - Not her Suriel, but one of their kin nonetheless - had joined her in her hunt and had even directed her to a spectacular grove of milk white blossoms that in the light sparkled like stars, reminding her of the night sky of starfall. Naturally, she had to pluck them. 

She’d assumed nothing could go wrong. It was as simple as arrange them in a bouquet and tying them together. And so why did she now find herself half-collapsed over the desk, panting raggedly and ragingly, overwhelmingly horny?

The faint glitter of the petals had brushed off as if it were mere illusion and now lay scattered across the desk, upon her skin, in her eyes. Not glitter, but pollen. Heady, scented pollen, that smelt of sweat and cum and tumbled bedsheets. Long nights. Tensed muscles. Muffled moans. Rhysand, above her, around her, gasping. 

She could think of nothing else. Those flowers, beacons of tantalising light in the darkness, shimmered and inspired only further illusion and delusion as she sunk to her knees and fell into daydreams of him touching her, stroking her, whispering to her. Feyre.  _ Feyre _ . F-

“Feyre.”

He is in the doorway, worried that she is in pain and yes, yes she is, but now how he thinks she is. He rushes to her side to scoop her up and tend to her wounds, but finds no blood. Only blood in her cheeks, beneath her skin. Flushing her limbs. Her clit. Her throbbing, aching clit. “Rhys,” She whines, the pollen still flooding every sense she has, though through it all she is hyper aware of his scent, his heat, his firm, tight body. “ _ Rhys _ .”

“Feyre? What happened? You-” He begins with logic and concern but then the draught through the open door stirs the air, and that fateful pollen dusks his nose and he is dragged down too. His cock is hard as a rock, his skin feeling  _ everything _ a thousand times over and all he wants is her lips against his, against him, against  _ all _ of him. 

They are kissing, and all she wanted was to be a lady, but as his strong arms plant her atop the table she does not care. She brushes aside the flowers, sending them cascading to the floor, and gasps as he thrusts her back against the table top. Staring up at him, she giggles, and bucks into him with her hips. “Fuck me, lordling,” she whispers, biting down upon her lower lip. She does not think she has ever been this… aroused. “Even if I cannot put some stupid petals together, I am still your High Lady.”

  
“Feyre,” Rhysand grunts, not just out of frustration, but because his cock is in her and fuck she is so  _ hot _ , inside and out. “You are more than that. You are my mate.” He is grinding against her, into her, filling her, and hissing, “And so, so much more.”

**Author's Note:**

> These are largely unedited and quick responses so the attached warnings for quality apply here. Done to scratch itches rather than tell great narrative tales if you catch my gist.


End file.
